


Splintered Loyalty

by Anangke



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Q, Betrayal, Consensual Violence, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Implied/Referenced Torture, Knifeplay, M/M, Murder, Psychological Drama, Revenge, Romance, Rough Sex, Scars, Tragic Romance, dark!Q, dark!Sherlock, plott, traitors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:33:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anangke/pseuds/Anangke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before him, all three monitors display feed from the rerouted satellite. The luxury liner is burning in triplicate and Q is powerless to stop it.  </p>
<p>In the silence surrounding him, the silence that threatens to swallow him down, all that fills his mind is the complicated mechanics of maintaining the endless flames of a Viking funeral pyre cast out into an infinite ocean.  Direct, purposeful rewiring away from the reality of burning ships and bad intel and the loss of two agents.  Away from the loss of Bond.  </p>
<p>There was no warning. He doesn’t understand why he was expecting a different outcome. They both knew, with the calculated certainty of all professionals in their chosen field, there would be no happily ever after for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Who Takes, Keeps](https://archiveofourown.org/works/643412) by [Kryptaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria). 



> This is my first FF here at AO3. I loved Kryptaria's story, Who Takes, Keeps, and wanted to write a sequel. I look forward to reading your comments.

 

_His ears are ringing from the sound of the explosion until it gradually subsides to nothing._

_There is only silence; absolute and certain and final._

_Before him, all three monitors display feed from the rerouted satellite. The luxury liner is burning in triplicate. He is powerless to stop it. In the silence surrounding him, the silence that threatens to swallow him down, all that fills his mind is the complicated mechanics of maintaining the endless flames of a Viking funeral pyre cast out into an infinite ocean._

_His mind is automatically rerouting to obscure specifics about Vikings and funerals and wood solubility when it should be focusing on the crisis strategies contained in the operational parameters. He’s not correctly processing the aftermath of the mission. He recognizes his mind has identified the imminent threat of sensory overload and started precautionary measures without instruction. Direct, purposeful rewiring away from the reality of burning ships and bad intel and the loss of two agents._

_Away from the loss of Bond._

_He fails to recall how to breathe._

_There was no warning. Bond's voice was ripped away from him, out of him. The ship should not be burning before him now, it is statistically improbable. His mind, and his brain, and the accumulation of the logic he depends on so heavily, are all pointing out the mathematical injustice of the scenario. They had at least three minutes._

_004 wouldn't have mistaken seven minutes for four minutes. She was one of the most reliable special agents in the field. She returned the majority of her tech intact and was almost always pleasant about it. His mind is scrambling, trying to gain traction in the landslide of crippling emotion threatening to overwhelm his very being, by supplying him with extraneous, logical, supporting facts for a reality that no longer exists._

_While he wishes his mind would stop the onslaught of information, he desperately wants to avoid the ominous silence it is barely holding back._

_He doesn't understand why he was expecting a different outcome. Why his grasping, unfocused mind is insisting he was owed an explanation, if not fair warning. Why now? Haven't they discussed this future countless times before, if not this exact scenario?_

_They both knew, with the calculated certainty of all professionals in their chosen field, there would be no happily ever after for them._

 

\-----

 

In the aftermath of the explosion it takes him a moment to realize he is surrounded by silence.

It is a silence that shouldn't exist. Q Branch is never quiet, never silent. There is always a steady hum from the bustle of activity surrounding simultaneous missions and ongoing weapons projects and the rush to meet urgent deadlines. There is always someone to save, somebody to collaborate with, something to blow up.

Now there is nothing, save the quiet. Everyone in the entire room is holding their collective breath as they wait for him, watching him. No one moves.

“Agents, agents, report,” he says, his voice low, urgent.

There is no response.

On the screens before him, the flames crackle and burn. The black night is alight with an inferno reaching for the heavens as it consumes what remains of the luxury liner floating atop the dark sea. Q Branch is lit by the same intense light. The shadows cast by the burning monitors depict a deadly fire in a room where no one can feel the heat.

“Status report,” he orders into the silence of Q Branch.

“Sir,” Cyrus, the technician manning the comm seat to his right, tentatively interrupts his chaotic thoughts.

Q tears his focus from the monitors to look over at him, nodding for him to continue.

“Sir, there are three boats converging on the wreckage. They're coming in fast. Two from the northeast and one directly from the south.”

“Were they there all along?” Q asks. “I didn't see them on the radar schematic from. When is the schematic from?”

“Less than thirty minutes ago.”

“Where were they then?”

“They didn't appear on the schematic sir” Q can see from where he stands that Cyrus is scanning through the digital display of the radar schematics for the past two hours on his laptop. “They are not there.”

“How did we miss this? Edgar,” Q turns his attention to the technician beside Cyrus, “where were the reports on these ships? What does your data show?”

“Already checked, sir, and all of our data indicates the liner was clear for a seventy miles radius save our one earlier confirmation. The report from 1800 hours showed a cargo barge coming in from the west but we anticipated that well in advance.” Edgar reports. He is a new addition to Q Branch, less than two weeks initiated, a thick kid that looks more like a footballer than a techie fresh out of school. Q notes in his scattered thoughts that he is reacting well to the crisis before them.

“Someone must have them. Do we know their allegiance? Who is crewing them?”

“Sir, we can’t confirm how long they have been in the near vicinity of the liner,” Edgar answers. He is leaning into his headset, disbelief clear on his face at the information he is receiving. “Five is blind as well. So is Greek Special Forces. There were no ancillary indicators, no triggers on any satellite feed I can see.”

“Close proximity fits though, sir. The weather conditions being what they are right now, to reach the wreckage this quickly they must have within twenty nautical miles. Here, look,” Cyrus points to the monitor furthest to the left with a hand that barely shakes. “You can see them starting to appear at the curve of the perimeter.”

“And we had no intel?” Q finds he can’t quite keep the razor sharp edge from his voice.

“No, none sir.”

“Are we certain they would have seen the explosion?”

“Absolutely, sir,” Edgar answers.

“They're canvassing for survivors then,” M comments from a close distance behind Q.

“Or they're a retrieval team,” Q growls refusing to turn and acknowledge his superior’s entrance on the floor. “Waiting in the wings for the explosion.”

“We won’t be able to tell their purpose from this satellite,” R adds from where she leans forward, studying the screen furthest to his right.

“No ma’am,” Edgar confirms. “There’s no way to increase the magnification of the area on this model. It is at full resolution capacity.”

Q ignores R’s comment her even as he realizes she has left 006’s mission to be here in the room with him. She’s supporting him. M’s supporting him. In its own way, all of Q Branch is supporting him with the strange display of solitary focus.

They’re concerned about him.

He frowns to himself as he identifies what is going on with his team but he keeps his expression empty of everything but focus. Bond’s trained him well and Q is glad of it. He finds he has to consciously push down the anger starting to erupt in his chest over the concern arriving too late to do the mission any good. If they had listened to him earlier, at the outset of this bloody disaster, there would be no failed mission and no lost agents.

Q looks down to see his fists, white-knuckled, gripping the chair in front of him. He forces himself to release the chair from his hands and to straighten from the half-lunge he has been holding as he faces the bank of monitors before him. He arches his back before resuming his customary military-straight posture.

In his fluid movements, he hears the pulse of the room shiver and restart around him.

“Agents report,” he grits out.

When there is no answer he talks directly to his team. “What is the status of the extraction team?”

“Twenty minutes out by air, thirty by water, sir.” This time it is Russell, the tech heading up the extraction teams, who is quick to report from his right. Q notices he has taken off his headset and is fidgeting with it in his hands as he awaits direction.

“Send both retrieval teams,” he orders, watching Russell until the headset is firmly back in place on his head before turning back to the screen.

“Yes sir.”

“Quartermaster.” The voice is soft but firm. R has stepped up to his right side.

“No.” His reply is firm as he keeps his focus on the missing agents. “007, 004, if you can hear me, report. What is your status?”

Silence answers him, broken only by Russell’s order to send the extraction teams. Q continues to study the screens before him. He retrieves his personal tablet from the table in front of him and quickly accesses his home server to start searching for clues to what happened out there.

R is right in her assessment of the satellite feed and it frustrates him. The satellites they have access to now do not have the image resolution capabilities to give him the information he needs to determine the possible survival of their agents. Q scowls because they are the only ones Q Branch was given access to over the course of the next several hours. He proceeds to reroute several satellites with a significant magnification advantage through his personal equipment. It isn’t exactly a legal maneuver, no matter what his security clearance is. This makes it a detail he can’t share with Q Branch, even if he wanted to, which he does not.

“Q, you heard the arrival estimation for both extraction teams,” R quietly begins from beside him.

“Yes,” his voice is calm.

“It is a narrow time table. Even if perfectly executed, we can expect both extraction teams will intersect with the boats on site. They’re no doubt observing each other right now.”

“Then they interact.” Q looks over at Russell who is watching them, awaiting further orders, and gives instructions. “Make sure the teams are aware there are potential hostiles ahead of them.”

“They are already fully aware of the situation, sir.”

“Good.”

R takes a deep breath beside him. She's not contradicting him before the team, she wouldn't do that to him, but her dissension is there all the same. If M agrees with her, he’s not saying anything. Q knows his immediate superior would have no problem overruling him during a mission should he feel the situation warranted the oversight. Still, R’s quiet undertones make her words all the louder. They feed into the palpable tension of the room that is already struggling to breathe.

Q looks away from the screen to direct all of the intensity of his forced calm at his second in command. Looking away from the screen allows him to have a peripheral view of all the employees who have gathered in Q Branch. They flank M in a loose semi-circle where he stands ten paces behind Q with his hands shoved into the pockets of his suit trousers as he stoically watches the events unfold.

R faces him as their team members pull back as far into their work spaces as possible. Great men have cowered before him when he’s leveled this look at them. The last living person to see it was Galya and she knew what it meant for her, even if R does not.

“Maintain course and direction.” His voice is authoritative and now there's a dangerous edge to it. It’s an undercurrent to his tone he has always consciously kept apart from Q Branch. Q feels the edge of his tablet splinter in his hand.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees M look up at him sharply, recognizing the change in his voice.

Of course he does, Q realizes. Mallory was there for much of Q's former life.

R meets Q’s eyes. What she sees there causes her to take a step back. He knows she’s truly seeing him for the first time.

He doesn't give himself time to regret the decision.

“If there is a chance, any chance,” he says quietly to her, knowing every ear within one hundred feet of them is hanging onto his words, “and that could be the chance of the tiniest snowflake surviving the fiery depths of the deepest hell, we go in and we save them. Do you understand me?”

“Yes sir,” R says. Her eyes drop as she nods, acquiescing, but the movement cannot hide the frown that crosses her face.

Q studies her expression, preserving it in his memory, as she steps back toward the bank of monitors to his right. R returns her complete focus to 006’s mission. The agent has maintained a holding pattern in light of the chaos that unfolded without warning. Q doesn't look forward to explaining to Bond’s best friend what happened on this mission. If Bond is well and truly gone there will be hell to pay.

At least, Q realizes, he’ll have a companion on his suicide revenge mission.

R’s behavior, her questioning, is completely out of character. Q can count on one hand the disagreements they have had in their entire time working together and that’s without using his thumb or his index finger. Yet here they are, three disagreements in less than as many days. Her actions are so out of character they cause him to doubt his choice for a nanosecond before he dismisses it.

R is either his best employee or has a death wish.

He will consider it, all of it, later. Q knows with absolutely certainty he will evaluate and reevaluate the minutia, the details, the scope, the effect of each and every choice made by him and the others later. He will torture himself with it, of that he is certain, once he can think clearly again.

And it starts with determining what happened to those final three minutes.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

_One minute he is whole._

_It isn't shock that he’s feeling.  Shock he knows. They had their first encounter when the mortar ripped open the side of the helicopter and ricocheted through the soldiers surrounding him.  They became intimately acquainted as he tore his eyes away from the lifeless body cradled in his arms and found himself looking at the ground hurtling up at him in a space where only steel should be.  This isn't shock._

_There is pain.  The first, hot wave so strong it nearly drops him to his knees.  It seizes him as he watches the_ _graphic, high definition video feed depict his life burning down to ash against the dark waves of the Aegean Sea.  The pain is real, it is visceral,_ _like the physical outpouring of blood gushing from a fatal shot, center-mass._

_The next minute something breaks inside him._

_It is only when his vision starts to darken that his lungs remember their primary function.  Involuntarily, his body remembers how to draw in air.  The movement is ragged and aching, as if he is the one breathing in black smoke on a scrap of wreckage._

_The pain retreats minutely with the return of oxygen.  It is chased by a hollow chill that crawls slowly across his skin; the first tendril of loss creeping into his consciousness.  Loss he knows as intimately as shock and pain._

_The next minute, and each minute following after it, he finds himself consumed by a bottomless chaos.  He knows it holds the potential to destroy him as he searches the monitors for something that can provide him a reason to hope. All was not lost.  The right in his world will be restored._

_He sees_ _nothing beyond_ _fires and failures and peculiarities and empty blue eyes._

 

\--

 

“Q.” M’s voice pulls him back to the present. “My office.”

He reacts with a nod of acknowledgement as he turns to follow.  His legs carry him away from his desk and out of Q Branch without needing instructions from his brain.  Even as he trails M down the agency corridors to the privacy of his office, Q’s mind is actively engaged in the mission.  He is monitoring the progress of the extraction teams in route to the liner, processing the data his home server is supplying his personal tablet, and desperately searching for the idiosyncrasies that will illuminate what caused this outcome. 

Q doesn't remove the earpiece.  The signal is powerful enough to alert him if there is the slightest sound up to a quarter mile away from the base of the communications portal.  He’ll know what happens when the teams arrive on site.  He needs to stay vigilant and available to his agents in the field who could, even now, be fighting insurmountable odds to return home. 

He has to.

Mallory’s actions are strictly protocol.  Protocol mandates an immediate, initial debrief after the loss of an agent.  It is a quick response.  One that is absent the time allotment necessary to create a calculated, formulaic statement of fact.  First impression is highly valued in a crisis situation.  Q is well aware of the reason for the meeting.  He also knows that while it is the first meeting on the subject, it will not be the last.

“Cyrus?” He inquires over the comm.  Three minutes remain until the first team arrives.

The response is instantaneous. “Still nothing sir.”

M turns to raise an eyebrow at him as they reach the door.  Q shakes his head in the negative and follows him inside.  Moneypenny is there, sitting at her desk outside M’s office, tears streaming down her cheeks.

She looks up at their arrival, quickly wiping her face with a tissue that smears her careful makeup.  She starts to get up and comfort Q but he stops her with a glare.  They are friends but he does not need her sympathy right now.  He needs his edge, his focus.  Startled, Moneypenny hesitates for a heartbeat before silently sinking back into her chair and dropping her streaming eyes to her desk.

Once they are inside the soundproof walls of his office, M closes the door.  He walks purposefully past Q heading straight to the sideboard.  There he pours two glasses of an expensive scotch.  One he keeps for himself and the other he extends to him. 

Q frowns at the offer and doesn't accept it.  

M sighs heavily. It isn't the sound of disappointment and it isn't the sound of frustration but Q can tell it occupies a space between the two emotions.

He finds he doesn't care.  

“You don't know anything for certain,” M tells him as he places the second drink on the cabinet top before walking behind his desk to sink into the leather chair. 

He gestures for Q to sit as well but Q remains standing.  It would be disrespectful to sit and concede the mission was over.  Q finds the idea that M believes they could stop right now and start to debrief, assessing their immediate reactions to the tragedy before them, singularly appalling.

His sudden distaste causes him to study Mallory as he sits before him.  His superior looks older than he has in years.  The job, the responsibility, is taking a toll on him.  There are lines carved in his face now that weren't there six months, even a year, before. 

They both know M should be talking.  It is a crucial part of the protocol dictated debrief.  M should be reviewing the mission parameters so together they can candidly assess where deviations may have occurred in the field resulting in this fatal outcome.  The discussion should be followed by a brief review of interpersonal relationships with the department and the order of psych evaluations, time off and then one or two comforting words to ease the personal blow. 

These are the things he should do. 

Mallory’s not doing them any of them, however, and Q knows why.  The way he talked to R on the floor of Q Branch has erected a wall between them.  Events that occurred over the past seventy two hours are preventing Mallory from doing his job because this particular M knows firsthand what this particular Quartermaster is. And what he is not.

“Don’t analyze me Q.  Not now,” M says sharply, looking up from his drink.

“Why not? It appears that is exactly what you’re doing.”  

“I’m trying to find a suitable starting place after what happened out there tonight.”

“Why don’t you find it and let me know when you’re ready to begin,” Q’s voice is tight with forced calm. “I need to be in Q Branch right now.”

“No, you don’t. You need to be here.  Q it is unlikely-” M starts to say but is stunned into silence as Q throws the tablet in his hand at the antique desk with such force it shatters.

“You don’t tell me what to do,” he growls, taking several steps forward toward his superior’s desk.  The sound of the shattering tech has released him from where he stands. 

“Careful,” M warns as he stands as well.   

Q stops advancing, forcing himself to stand still and face M as he speaks, but he can’t keep the rage from his voice.  “The mission should never have taken place.  We shouldn't have been there.”

“You mean Bond shouldn't have been there.”

Q sucks in a sharp breath as the words hit him with a reality he isn't accepting yet. “You think I would be any less angry, that I would want your blood any less, over another agent?”

“Yes. I do,” Mallory counters evenly.

“You shouldn't.”

“I do.  I think you can’t distance yourself from this.”

“And so what if I can’t?  That doesn't make me any less effective.  It doesn't mean-” Q says as Cyrus cuts in.

“Sir!”

Q holds up a hand to M who nods, slowly sinking back into his chair, and waiting.

“Go ahead.”

“Sir, it’s the pilot from the first helicopter. They've arrived.”

“What does he see?”

“Nothing yet.  They can confirm the destruction of the ship but very little else.  He says everything is on fire.  They don’t see any survivors or any wreckage that isn't engulfed in flames.  The other boats are circling but they’re not retrieving anything.”

“Describe the boats.”

“There moving in closer sir but initial intel reports commercial and civilian status.”

“Civilian?” Q asks. 

“That is the report.”

“What else?” he asks, his voice terse.

“Divers were dropped in the water.  Naval support is seven minutes out.”

“Let me know what they see the minute they arrive.” He checks his watch to verify the time.  

“Yes sir.”

Three non-military ships in the area of a massive explosion. It doesn't make sense.  He had personally checked and re-checked the team’s report on the maritime activity in that area for the past three months.  There should have been nothing in the commercial lanes.  The location was too far out for local fisherman from any of the adjacent countries.  It is another peculiarity.

“Nothing confirmed,” Q says as he turns his attention back to Mallory. 

 His superior frowns at the desk in front of him before he drains his glass. “Tonight’s unfortunate events demonstrate we may have made the wrong call.”

“Is that what you're calling it?”

“Watch yourself!” M looks up sharply, his words venomous. “We have a long history but even my tolerance has limits, Quartermaster.”

“So I’m ‘Quartermaster’ in this instance?” Q feel his lips quirk into a smile at the display of aggression. “You're not the only one, Mallory.”

“You don't want to do this,” M warns and the tone of his voice could cut ice.

“Maybe I do.”

“You don’t know where this path leads.”

“I think I know better than most,” Q scolds, shaking his head. “Your job is the logical next step in my shining career path.  I have the knowledge, the intellect, the skill, to run circles around you and anyone else in this bloody department.  A fact you know but actively choose to ignore in this moment.  I also have the complete respect of everyone in the chain of command here which is something you cannot claim to hold in your arsenal. ”

“That's not all it takes to sit here at this desk.”

“No, but we both know I have those connections too,” Q retorts. “You'd be out by the end of the week, if not the day.  All I have to do is show an inkling of a real interest.”

“Q.” M is stoic, there will be no pleading from him. “I know better than anyone else what you are.”

“Save one.”

“Save one,” M agrees and looks at him, regret etched on his lined face.

Q knows they’re both remembering the words they wielded at each other in their fight about this mission.  It lays heavily in the air between them as M stands and comes around the desk to face him.  Q can read in his superior’s body language that he is no longer posturing.  He is no longer fearful of Q’s reaction.  Instead, he is responding as an ally, if not a friend, when he reaches out to grip Q’s shoulder. 

The one that used to hold a tattoo that was a mirror image of Mallory’s own.

“And I am truly sorry for that loss.”

“I don't want it,” Q says quietly.

“I know,” M says.  “I also know things happen in the field. The worst, most horrible, most unexpected things.  You know that better than most in your position.”

“Not like this.”

“You maintain this was a set up.”

Q pauses weighing the veracity of his next words, finding them true as he tests them against every bit of intel he now knows. “This failure of this mission was intentional. In light of what happened, I can see we didn't have all the information we needed.  Including 004 was purely a matter of convenience, not for her experience with explosives.  We had no way to prepare for an outcome like this. Someone intentionally blinded us.”

“You understand the implications of what you're saying.”

“Yes.” There is no more emotion in his voice.  He is cold, deadly, exactly what he was trained to be. “It was purposefully removed.”

M nods. There is no further discussion. This M isn't the one who hired him. His predecessor, for all her strengths, only knew Q on paper.  He was simply an over-qualified candidate with an excellent pedigree.  This M knows him from his previous life, from experience, from command.  They've spilled blood together. He isn't a stranger to the brutality hidden under the unassuming veneer, the vulnerable quartermaster guise, he knows the darkness.

“Alright then,” M says.

“Sir,” Cyrus interrupts in Q’s ear.

“Report Cyrus,” Q responds immediately, turning to pace the length of Mallory’s office.

“All the teams are reporting sir. They performed three sweeps each.  The divers have been in the water over fifteen minutes with no results.”

“What about the other vessels?”

“They left sir,” Russell chimes in. “Two were commercial ships and one was a civilian fishing charter.  All three were responding to the explosion.  They didn't find anyone in the wreckage either.”

“Verify your last statement.”

There’s a pause.  Cyrus answers him quietly, “No survivors, sir.”

No survivors.  Q feels the impact of this words hit his chest. It is a knife that cuts into his heart with cold, accurate precision. 

“Acknowledged,” Q says automatically before he removes the ear piece.  He turns and walks over to M’s desk where he sets it down gently. 

For the first time since the mission began, he needs to be alone. 

“Get your head right,” M says. “Then come back and finish it.”

He nods at Mallory’s words. They are a simultaneous recognition of the mission’s failure and that it was his agent who was lost.  Both of them know Q can't begin to set the perfect trap when he is emotionally compromised.  He opens the office door and leaves the office, striding purposefully past Moneypenny and into the hallway without speaking. 

Q is in the stairwell, heading for Bond’s car alone, when the grief hits him.  His legs simply give out beneath him.  He sinks to his knees on the concrete, falling against the wall with a silent scream he is powerless to stop.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

_When he realizes he’s standing outside in the cold rain, it's well after midnight._

_It is dark around him but he doesn't need the light to know his jacket is soaked through to his skin, the wet fabric of his shirt clinging to his body.  The Thames stretches out before him from where he stands on the old wooden dock. Rain drops splash clumsily against his thick glasses as he looks up at the black sky and is unable to see the stars through the cloud bank._

_Even though he doesn't remember the rain beginning to fall on him he recognizes the shapes and sounds and smells of the wharf in the night. The last time he stood in this spot Bond was with him.  Consistent and unfailing, those were the words he used to describe the river, a smile playing on his lips. He had never considered water that way before; to him it was relentless and uncontrollable and deadly.  Bond’s words, however, caused him to make an allowance for a new perspective again._

_The illuminated hands on the dial of his watch not only reveal the time but pinpoint his location, confirming his own assessment.  He doesn't know how long he was walking before he reached this destination. The loss of time doesn't concern him as much as it should._

_He leaves the dock and stops on the wet pavement to take in his surroundings.  There are streetlights here illuminating partial sections of the roadways with historic names.  They are not bright enough to eliminate all the shadows cast by the industrial buildings in the night but they make an effort all the same._

_He needs dry clothes and a solid night’s sleep but he can’t go home.  Not yet.  Going to their home now, without finishing this, would be a desecration of everything they are to each other. He won’t do that to them.  He has to avenge this first._

_Besides, he needs help.  A specific type of help._

_To Baker Street then._

_A shout interrupts his thinking and he stops, listening for the noise.  He hears it again, originating to his left, before it is abruptly cut off.  It is a distinctly feminine voice.  He automatically turns in the direction of the sound, quickly walking toward it, as the first shot rings out.  There is an anguished cry from a second voice before a second shot follows and then a third._

_He stills at the third gunshot to thoroughly assess his surroundings. The industrial purposed street he is on is beginning to yield to a converted residential section.  It is empty but he believes that is due to the hour of night.  The sounds originate three blocks ahead of him on the left hand side of the street.  If he stays close to the buildings as he draws closer he knows he will not be seen._

_He starts walking again and keeps to the darkest shadows the lights do not penetrate._

_Twenty yards ahead of him there is a grocer.  He bought a box of tea and electrical wire there two weeks previous. The owner was a polite older gentleman who told him stories of the war he witnessed as a child and remembered the tea he purchased on an earlier visit, retrieving the box for him as they talked._

_He believes the sounds are coming from the alleyway on the south side of the renovated building just beyond the grocer.  A quick assessment confirms his speculation.  Two victims.  Two assailants.  The first attacker stand over them with a knife. His partner awkwardly holds a heavy black gun, a .44 Magnum revolver by the looks of it, in his left hand.  Despite firing the weapon, it is clear the man’s unfamiliar with the operation._

_His steps are efficient and silent.  There is no awareness of his approach but then he wasn't expecting any.  Very few can detect his presence when he wants to remain unseen._

_S_ _till, he realizes he's disappointed in them.  They are so consumed in what they are doing there is no situational awareness.  There is no understanding that they may not be the greatest threat prowling through the city tonight.  He easily steps in close to the gun holding thug and snaps his neck almost before the man registers his presence._

_The primary assailant turns at the sound and his eyes are wide with shock before they narrow.  The man crouches down, pulling the knife close to his body.  A fighter’s stance._

_H_ _is breath quickens in anticipation because this one is familiar with the knife._

_Not that it matters._

_The encounter is over as quickly as it begins.  The first mugger is dead and the second is now incapacitated.  The man is kneeling on the ground in a puddle of his own blood pleading and apologizing.  All he feels is disgust at the lack of dedication from the common criminal before he slits the man’s throat with his own knife._

_Disgust, he realizes in that moment, is a welcome departure from grief._

_He calls emergency from his phone as he walks away.  He knows he's nondescript enough that the thankful victims won't be able to identify him with any degree of certainty; black jacket, thin, pale, savior.  He bears little resemblance to the young man who buys tea at the grocery on occasion. There are no cameras he can see on this portion of the street but he’ll still check for footage later when all this is over and he does return home._

_Besides, he smirks to himself, if it escalates before he can do anything it will give Mycroft something to do._

 

 

\-----

 

 

**72 Hours Earlier**

The bombing of the Egyptian embassy is a blow. 

Tanner is in critical condition.  It is no small miracle that he is still breathing.  His staff was all but eliminated.  Only one aide remains unaccounted for and is most likely buried in the smoking rubble with the majority of the two hundred plus event attendees.    

All the escape routes were blocked.  Multiple vehicles from multiple countries were either secondary explosions or they became collateral damage as the occupants were shot by snipers.  If it hadn't been for the combined intervention of the Jordanian and Algerian secret police, whose diplomats’ fashionably late arrival coincided with the detonation of the first bomb, there would have been no escape from the burning building for anyone.  

003 is nearly dead in her effort to save Tanner.  She is not with him but he reported her sustained injuries himself before passing out with emergency services.  An Egyptian medic reports over the unsecured line that he is critical but stable. 

The snipers have been neutralized.  There were four total covering the major exits to the embassy.  There is enough media attention on location now that there is some security for Tanner in his identity as a British national on foreign soil but there is no guarantee.  Q immediately reroutes 009, who was changing planes at a tiny airstrip on Cyprus, to protect their second in command.

Q has been at his desk for over four days.  Sleep is a distant memory.  Bond’s last mission ended ten hours ago and Q was almost home when he received a frantic call from Miriam, R’s extraction specialist, informing him Tanner’s diplomatic event had turned hostile.  Normally, Q would have reprimanded the interruption of the chain of command and left the mission in R’s more than capable hands.  It was the combination of Miriam’s near hysteria and it being Tanner, who Q actually likes, that caused him to follow his instincts and return to headquarters.   

He removes his glasses to run both hands over his face. R relinquished control the moment he stepped foot on the floor.  Her surprised look that lasted less than a heartbeat.  He knows they’ll discuss it later, at great length, but in this moment they have a catastrophe to manage.

The confirmation of the death of 0011 comes in next.  Q watches R carefully.  She and 0011 have worked closely together on several missions over the past eight months.  R gives no outward indication she is upset by the news other than a slight stiffening of her posture.  The guarded response, however, tells Q’s just how upset she is.

He is reviewing the second set of reports he has pulled from a combination of sources: mission trajectories, known enemies in the area, event attendee lists, and political agendas just for starters.  This explosion was a statement but he hasn't verified what the message is just yet.  All he has are a collection of good hunches.  The embassy guest list on his tablet is so high profile there is no reason to jump to the conclusion that Tanner was the intended victim. 

“Russell,” Q says as he looks up from the report he was reading to see one of his team sitting at the desk in front of him. “Give me an update on the chatter.  Has anyone claimed responsibility?”

“Still no, sir.  I’m monitoring all the channels.  Everything is quiet.” Russell supplies the information as Q looks around the floor to see his entire team has returned from their dismissal after Bond’s mission ended.  He’s not surprised.  Word moves fast in Q Branch and Tanner is well respected. 

“Too quiet,” a new voice agrees quietly.  It’s Edgar, another of Q’s best and brightest.  He gently sets Q’s tea down in front of him on the table before retrieving his laptop from beside Russell and sitting down on the floor next to Q to sift through more data.  Q allows himself to feel a moment of pride in the united front his team forms without being asked.

Edgar’s right, Q concedes.  Despite the fact that both his and R’s teams are working on this they haven’t had any significant breakthroughs yet.  They should have uncovered something by now; a slightly irregular communication pattern, a misplaced bank account, a glitch in the data.  Every report is clean.  Even Silva’s trail surfaced when Q pressed hard enough and he doubts this is an enemy of Silva’s caliber.

On the monitor to his right, the list of the players most likely to bomb the embassy dinner are being assembled in order of probability.  Q Branch’s list is over twenty people long.  They lack the proper filter they need to narrow it down.  It is that fact, more than anything, which concerns him.

There are only four faces total, however, on his list.  Only four international players match Q’s criteria.  He’s not using Q Branch tech for this.  Instead he’s on his personal tablet accessing his home server to search with a different set of parameters that he would rather not disclose to his team because the variable he’s using to screen the information is too sensitive.

Only ten people in MI-6 knew Tanner’s original schedule in addition to Tanner and Q.  Only five people knew of the revisions Q made after 003 was assigned at the last minute.  Two of those five were the agents in Egypt with Tanner.  The other three people are in Q Branch with him right now.

His filter is Q Branch employees.

“You need to get some rest Q,” R says quietly as she comes to stand beside him.   

He wants to argue with her as he places his locked tablet in front of him on the table so he can stretch.  In light of his discovery, he wants to command the operation now but he’s been doing that since before Bond’s mission. Q knows he needs to unplug for an hour or two or he will be no good to anyone the way the fatigue is setting in.  This remains R’s mission and she has it in hand for now.  He won’t have the data he needs for another two hours at least.  By then she’ll probably have found the anomaly he’s missing and he can hope the common thread won’t be someone from their department.   

“You’re right,” he concedes.

R opens her mouth to respond but they are interrupted by the sound of arguing in the hallway outside Q Branch.  Even though the words are muffled, he can tell one voice belongs to M.  The other is familiar but Q can’t quite place it. 

“How is he?” M calls out to Q as he strides into the room. 

Mallory is immaculately dressed in a tuxedo.  There is a white opera scarf around his neck. Q vaguely recalls something about a gala tonight and M arguing about his required attendance with Moneypenny.  They were discussing it at a particularly tenuous part of Bond’s mission though and his glare had them leaving Q Branch to continue their discussion elsewhere.

“Stable sir, under Jordanian guard,” Q replies. “009 is on his way.”

“And what about everyone else?” A second voice call out from close behind M.

Q and R and both of their teams turn to look at the short, squat man entering the room.  He is walking purposefully onto the floor with the air of someone used to being in charge.  He is flanked by two armed soldiers and Moneypenny.  The soldiers separate once the man catches up to M, one moving to watch the door and other to stand beside him, and Moneypenny moves to the side of the room.  She catches Q’s eye and shakes her head in exasperation.

Q would recognize the man anywhere and his pulse quickens as he identifies the threat.  It is General Aldo Amarzus, III.  He is presently in charge of the British Army’s operations in the Middle East. 

“I asked, where is everyone else?” General Amarzus demands as he looks from one monitor to the next. “I have the clearance for this information.”

M meets Q’s eyes as he silently asks the question.  M is well aware that Q knows the general.  Q shakes his head slightly in response as R provides the answer. “All are believed to be dead, General Amarzus.”

Moneypenny raises her eyebrows at R speaks for Q.  He is sure that both M and Moneypenny realize R relinquished control to him the minute he returned to the floor.  Q looks at R, surprised she answered, but he realizes she probably knows Amarzus.  R was in the army before Q Branch recruited her.  

“Do we know who is involved?” M asks.

“We are searching sir.  Those we have identified as possibly involved so far are on the screen to the right,” Q replies as M walks forward to look at the monitor. He highlights six of the names before he continues. “The majority of them lead terror cells in the Middle East but these are known for being massive intelligence brokers.  There is some thread of information linking each of them with the opportunity to do this.”

“Is that unusual Q?” Moneypenny asks as she moves forward to stand by M.

“Extremely.  Four or five leads, yes, of course.  To have this many players clearly linked to the attack is unusual.”  The overwhelming amount of data pointing to so many options is convenient too, Q adds silently.  He won’t accuse, not yet.  “Each person you see on this on this list has the ability to conduct this type of attack and the potential to know of the assembled attendees well in advance of the event.”

“R, did we have any advance intel?  Any idea this would happen?” M is frowning at the highlighted faces on the screen in front of him.

“No sir.  We had no reason to suspect a threat above the normal concern of entering the Middle East,” R answers.

“These details are all well and good but you need an immediate response Mallory,” the general interjects. “This is your boy who is in critical condition.  Your failed mission.”

“Tanner’s not on a mission,” R says, reacting to the Amarzus’ attack. “It’s virtually a state dinner.”

“It’s the second in command of a top secret organization attacked overseas,” General Amarzus sneers. “Call it what you want but you have to react appropriately.”

“We don’t know who it is yet,” M says carefully. “Q, do we have any indication of what those involved may want? A decoy request?  Any threats in code?  Have you seen anything you believe could be viewed as a demand?”

“Not yet,” Q answers.

“Assemble a response team,” Amarzus says as he stalks forward to point at the left bank of monitors that are showing the images of the evening news reporting the attack. “This is not something we have the luxury of ignoring.  You don’t get to be stealthy here.  Not when it is blasted in front of the citizens.”

“Aldo, we cannot just attack for no reason,” M replies.

“Of course you can Mallory, don’t be naïve.  There are a hundred targets there and all we have to do is pick one.  They’re all guilty of something.”

“We need to find the responsible party.  I’ll not take action with potential to start a war if I don’t know I’m in the right.”

“If you want certainty you should have stayed in politics.  Get your head out of your bloody ass,” the general growls. “If you won’t respond, I will.  I have high tech weaponry as well as ground forces in Egypt.  All I have to do is push a button and it’s done.  My men don’t even have to get out of bed.  Her Majesty is not going stand for this type of action against our government.”

“We don’t know it was an action against our government,” Q replies, turning around to face Amarzus for the first time.

“It’s always an attack on us, boy,” Amarzus snarls. “Or don’t they teach you that here?”

“Q, give me a timetable for when we could be ready to make a decision,” M says, ignoring the general’s glare.  All of Q Branch has gone silent around them.

“Thirty hours sir, possibly twenty-four, there are a number of variables we need to - ”

M interrupts him. “I need a briefing in seven.”

“Sir, we won’t have begun to analyze the data we need to consider to - ”

“You have your orders,” the general snaps at him.  He is opening studying Q where he stands and Q knows the general is trying to place him.  It was years before, when Amarzus was only a captain and Q was only a soldier under his command, but there are somethings you don’t forget. “We need to involve the other branches with ground forces there Mallory.”

M sighs as he turns away from the monitors. “We are under the gun for a response, Quartermaster.  I need something I can use right now but I would prefer it is the right decision.”

“It is called a direct response, Quartermaster,” the general draws out his title patronizingly. “You may not know anything about that but it’s what we need right now.”

“I think I do General Amarzus,” Q says evenly as he walks forward to stand in front of the shorter man. “After all, I built the so-called high tech weaponry you just mentioned you would be using in Egypt.  It’s actually called a first strike air defense system just so we’re clear, not that I would expect you to get critical mission details correct, and it remains property of Q Branch not the army.”

“Q,” M warns from behind him.

General Amarzus’ lips curl into a predatory smile. “Yes, get your pet under control Mallory.”

“That’s enough,” M says quietly as he comes to stand between them. “Seven hours Q. Then back here for a briefing.”

“Yes sir,” Q replies as he watches them leave the floor.  Moneypenny hesitates just long enough to give him an apologetic shake of her head before following them out.

“Are you alright?” R asks as she walks over to stand beside him.

“Yes,” he snaps as he turns away from her.  His entire body is rigid with tension.  Q is well aware he needs to clear his mind of the adrenaline coursing through him if he is to have any chance of getting M the answers he needs so quickly.  He won’t be able to do it if he stays where he is right now.

He retrieves his tablet from the table and heads for his office on the far side of the floor.  Once inside he turns around twice, running his hands through his hair in frustration, before he collapses on the couch.  He thinks there must be some project he can use to burn off his excess energy just as his eyes fall on the missile launcher prototype sitting on top of his workbench.

Q jumps to his feet and crosses the room to pick up the mini-rocket.  He had all but forgotten the progress he had made on it before Bond was called back into the field.  The custom case he designed weeks ago is exactly where he left it on the floor and he grabs it, gently loading the rocket in.  He retrieves his safety equipment from the trunk at the foot of the couch including the new prescription eye-wear that sits on the top of the pile.  Bond insists on keeping him outfitted in the best safety gear available ever since he nearly went deaf from testing out a cannon for Bond’s Harley in his warehouse. 

Equipment in hand, he smiles to himself as he leaves for the sub-basement of Q Branch.  Blowing something up is just what he needs to clear his mind.

 

\-----

 

It's less than an hour later when the door to Q Branch slams open. 

Bond stalks inside looking for Q.  The mission has been over for more than twelve hours and this is the last place he wants to be.  He had expected to find his quartermaster at their home waiting for him expectantly or passed out from exhaustion.  Instead, the plane landed and he opened his mobile to a distracted message from Q informing Bond he was called back in.

There will be bloody hell to pay when he gets his hands on Q.

All of the techs avoid his gaze and focus on their respective workstations.  Bond locates R who is intently studying the monitor in front of her. The report is in German and from what Bond can see before she wipes the screen it was reviewing a crisis situation at the Egyptian embassy.

“Where is he?” Bond growls at her.  He knows he’s wild-eyed and aggressive but there’s not much he can do about the post-mission high he’s riding.

“Go to medical 007,” R instructs as she takes in the bruise that covers half his face.  It starts on his neck where the final bastard he killed tried to choke him to death. “We have a time sensitive deadline right now.”

“Is that why he's still here?” Bond snarls at her, looking at his watch dramatically even though he doesn't need to. “He's been here at Q Branch going on over four days, R.  Isn't this your op?  What the bloody hell is wrong with you?”

R doesn't pale at Bond’s aggression but she’s a little less confident as she starts to answer him, “It's Tanner, Bond - ”

“Is that James?” Comes the crackle of a voice over the speaker.

Every head in Q Branch turns in the direction of the bank of speakers directly under the tri-panel of monitors in front of Q’s workstation.  Bond notes the surprise in the teams around him and knows Q must have turned up the volume before he left the floor to make sure nothing was missed. 

“Is that 003?” R’s second in command whispers to her superior.

“Sarah?” Bond asks into the air and refrains from walking closer to the speakers.  Instead, he turns to R who is already passing an earpiece to him.  He inserts it into his right ear as he goes to lean against Q’s workstation table. 

There’s a kid with a laptop sitting on the floor next to the table looking up at Bond with something that seems to be a mixture of awe and fear.  Fuck, he looks younger than Q.  It’s a look that Bond now associates with competence because of his damn quartermaster and he smirks to himself over how things change. 

Bond snaps his fingers and points at the chair.  There’s only the slightest hesitation before the kid complies. 

“James,” the agent rasps and he winces internally at the watery echo to her breathing.

“I’m here Sarah.  Where are you?”

“Where’s Q?”

“I’m looking for him myself,” Bond says to her.  Before he turns his full attention to her, he looks at the kid sitting beside him now.  “Do you know how to shut this off?  I want her voice in my ear.  Only my ear.  Can you do this?”

Bond is gesturing at the speaker and the kid nods.  Although Bond doesn't know much about the Q Branch technology he has a vague idea of how this works.  The kid clicks a few buttons on his laptop and they can no longer hear Sarah’s breathing from the main speakers.  It will have to do for now.

“James,” Sarah’s voice is barely a whisper but it is only his ear.

“Sarah, it’s just me. I’ll find Q. Tell me.”

“It’s the configuration of the bomb, James.  0011 sent it to me before, before - ” her voice breaks off in a sob.  Bond understands then that 0011 is dead. 

003 takes in a rasping breath to steady herself but Bond can hear the coughing. “You need to look at this.”

Bond feels the vibration of his cell phone. He unlocks it and looks down at the image, his blood running cold.

“Who else knows?”

“No one. Bond this means - ”

The line goes dead.

“Sarah, Sarah,” Bond repeats. There is nothing but silence.

“003 report,” R interrupts cutting into their comm line.  Bond looks up from the table in surprise at R as he realizes she’s been listening the whole time.

“Are you there? Sarah, can you hear me?  Did you send it?” Bond asks although he knows she is gone.

There is no response.

“Can you find the signal?” Bond looks down at the kid beside him who turned off the main speaker.

“No sir, we've lost the communication,” he replies as he shakes his head. “I don’t know what happened.  The signal was strong.”

“We were losing her.” R shakes her head in disagreement.

The kid beside Bond looks at him, confused.  Then he turns and Bond can see he is about to disagree with R.  Bond places a steadying hand on his shoulder and the kid freezes in his seat.

“007, check your phone,” R instructs turning to him. “Did you get what 003 was trying to send you?”

Bond stills at the request.  He knows it is R, Q’s second, in front of him but Sarah asked for Q.  Only Q.  She knew who was here in this room. 

Bloody hell, it was R’s op.

“No mum,” he replies, forcing himself to scowl at the device in his hand.  “We lost communication as it was coming through.”

R studies him for a moment and he stares right back at her.  She breaks eye contact first as he knows she would, R’s no Q.

“Alright 007.  Go to medical.”

Bond nods and drops the ear piece on the table next to the kid.  He has to see Q right now.  It is all that matters.

“Where is he?” Bond asks softly.

“Blowing off steam, I think, sir, he had that look he gets, the one when he’s thinking but he’s wired,” the kid stumbles over his words. Then he pauses and lowers his voice so only Bond can hear him. “But I’ve been monitoring the building, sir, and the sub-basement explosion field range was opened thirty minutes ago.”

“Thank you -” Bond says with his most charming smile and lets the question of the kid’s name hang in the air.

“Edgar, sir.”

“Thank you Edgar,” Bond says as he strides from the room to find his quartermaster.  There is very little time to lose and Q is the only person meant to see the image Sarah sent him.

Despite what 003 said over the comms it’s not an image of a bomb.  Instead, it’s a sentence she wrote on the wall in front of her, messily scrawled in her own blood. 

Three devastating little words.

“Traitor in six.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

_He climbs the fire escape to find his brother already sitting on the roof waiting for him._

_Sherlock doesn't speak as he sits down but passes him a lit cigarette._

_They watch the sun rise as they smoke the pack._

_“A traitor then,” Sherlock says, breaking the silence._

_“Yes.”_

_“You obviously have the proof you need.” It's not a question._

_“Obviously.”_

_“Interesting,” Sherlock comments, his chameleon eyes glinting._

_“There are seventeen more appropriate words to describe it.”_

_“Eighteen,” Sherlock smirks at him, “you’re slipping.”_

_He doesn’t take the bait.  On any other night he would; they would bicker and argue and try to outdo one another.  Tonight, he focuses on controlling his breathing as he stares at the cityscape beyond the rooftop._

_Sherlock lights two more cigarettes.  He takes comfort in the fact his fingers don’t shake as he accepts it._

_“Why didn’t they listen to you?”_

_“There are a combination of factors but I mainly believe it was the traitor’s influence.”_

_Sherlock nods. “We will need to run a security grid using your personal server for both the players inside your department and those outside of it.  I’ll need a complete list of who you know to be involved, make no exceptions.  We can maximize the examination of the ones you suspect are directly responsible using my network.  I expect you are well aware of who did this.”_

_“I need to be sure,” he says quietly._

_“You can work from here if you like.”_

_He looks over at his brother.  It's a kind offer.  One that wouldn't have existed before the doctor.  “No.  Thank you.  I can run my part of the op independently.”_

_“We should have the evidence you think is so important in under forty-eight hours.” Sherlock pauses.  His brother is deliberately holding his tongue.  The two of them know they don’t need any further proof between them to punish the guilty players._

_The simple knowledge his brother is in this with him is no small comfort._

_“We are doing this the right way.”_

_“Right.  Wrong.  Amorphous concepts.” Sherlock blows a smoke ring out toward the rising sun._

_“What else do you need?”_

_“Use your connections to find out where they are hiding in the city.  I need schedules and resources and access points, the full work up, together with a list of who else is in town with them.  Anything novel that looks suspicious to you as well.  Who shouldn’t be here but suddenly is.  If there are any new connections or networks I missed.”_

_“It’s improbable you missed anything.”_

_“I’m emotionally compromised,” he retorts._

_To his surprise, Sherlock doesn't laugh or comment.  He simply accepts the statement as a candid assessment. He knows his brother can read his grief.  It’s what they do to each other.  Sherlock sees it in the way he hunches his shoulders beside him now.  From the squint of his eyes as he looks at the new sun. From the way he cradles the cigarette. From how he held the tattoo of the seven on his back when he stepped onto the roof from the fire escape._

_“I'll start today. When will you go back?”_

_“Tomorrow.  Mallory grounded me for a time to get my head right,” he says darkly._

_“That's not enough time for you.  Not for this.”_

_“You’re right,” he stubs out the cigarette and lights one of the last remaining two from the pack.  He watches the match burn down to his fingers and doesn't flinch as the pain registers. “Can’t avoid it though.  This needs to be finished.”_

_“There's blood on your hands.”_

_He looks down at his hands._

_Sherlock means the actual blood._

_“It was deserved.”_

_“Do I need to worry?”_

_It’s nice of him to ask the question.  Niceties are new for Sherlock and he smiles.  He has always been able to blend in.  The perfect combination of the sociopath and the politician.  He is well aware the blood is a departure from that image.  Still, Sherlock doesn't need to ask. They both know that if, or when, it becomes too much the question won’t be asked.  They’ll simply handle it._

_“No. Not as of yet.”_

_“He is good for you, you know.”_

_Present tense. Interesting choice in light of the morning’s discussion but then he’s holding onto a shiver of hope.  Sherlock sees it._

_“Yes.”_

_Then there's a new voice calling up from the staircase for Sherlock._

_The detective gets up and walks to the edge of the rooftop.  He frowns at his scarf before removing it and handing it over.   It won’t remove the smell completely but it will help.  The line of his mouth says he knows there'll be hell to pay for the smoking once he descends._

_He follows Sherlock down the fire escape, remaining unseen just outside the open window._

_“Smoking?  Sherlock!”_

_“What was so imperative you drug me down here?”_

_The voice is bored to the uninitiated but he is not the uninitiated.  To his ears, the smile in the words is broadcasted like a grin._

_“Probably nothing, some crank caller.”_

_“Crank caller?”_

_Outside, he stills, listening intently for the doctor’s next words._

_“Well, I thought so at first, but it's happened once an hour on the hour since three this morning. You do realize you've been out there since three smoking?  You’re going to catch your death, you know-”_

_“John!” Sherlock interrupts._

_“Alright, alright.  I thought maybe you were expecting something, a message maybe.”_

_“Explain it, please John.”_

_He can hear the surprise in the doctor’s voice.  He’s reacting to Sherlock’s please, stumbling over his next words as he tries to describe it. “It's nothing fancy, really Sherlock, but it could be code. It's almost top of the hour now.  The call will be coming in.  I thought you could listen.”_

_“John,” his voice is insistent, “what exactly happens?”_

_“’Course.  The phone rings. I pick up and say hello.  Then there is a sound.  One beat, like a tap.”_

_“Exactly like a code then.”_

_It is a code of sorts, a verification of life, and the acknowledgment he’s been holding out hope for.  For the first time since Q Branch, he takes in a deep breath.  The broken feeling that has threatened to consume him eases slightly._

_A smile tugs at his lips as he descends the fire escape._

_There were benefits to having a real name after all._

\-----

 

**76 Hours Earlier**

 

The sub-basement of Q Branch cannot be reached by elevator. 

Twin elevators stop at the basement level where they open on a well-lit circular space that feeds into a variety of training facilities.  It was one of the first areas rebuilt after the bombing and specifically designed by Q with the needs of his agents in mind.  There are shooting ranges of all sizes, including a space the length of two football fields for vehicle testing, together with workout rooms, an Olympic size swimming pool and an indoor track. 

The basement is a frequent haunt for all of the agents when they are not in the field. Bond is only slightly surprised not to run into at least one other person as he exits the elevator and walks through the facilities.  He notices all the rooms he passes are empty as he moves quickly to the aquatic center and the adjacent locker room. 

Bond enters through the open door and passes the four rows of green lockers as he heads to the back of the room.  There, along the left rear wall, is an inconspicuous metal door to a utility closet.  He pulls the key card he stole from Q three weeks earlier out of his wallet.  There is a concealed key card reader along the bottom of the door handle, invisible to the unobservant.  As he pushes the card into the slot he knows is there he hopes Q didn’t change the access code just to teach him a lesson about stealing.

The lock releases and the door opens.  Bond slips inside finding himself immersed in complete darkness as soon as the door closes behind him.  The comprehensive safeguard system for the sub-basement is all Q’s brainchild and this is yet another precaution against unwanted access. There is less than a minute to move forward before a military grade tranquilizer designed to incapacitate the room’s occupant is released into the air through the vents.

Bond crouches down and runs his hand along the floor until he finds the trapdoor handle. It is a thin metal gouge in the floor bearing little resemblance to a lever at all.  The bar moves in a complete circle but is designed to open only for a specific turning radius.  Bond executes the maneuver quickly and efficiently.  The hatch unlocks and opens upward with the hiss of an airlock.  He wastes no time in moving into position to drop into the next equally dark space.

Once he has lowered his body almost completely through the hole, Bond slows.  He supports his weight with his hands and doesn’t release until his feet touch the cement platform.  Once he has his footing, he extends his right hand out to grip the stairway railing.  To his left is nothing but air, an empty tunnel shaft waiting to swallow up the uninitiated.  He chooses to trace his hand along the stairwell railing as he descends deeper in the dark.   

Most of the agents know the sub-basement exists and although a few have a rough idea of how to access it they choose not to try.  For the most part, Bond suspects it’s because they don’t have a good reason to go lower with all of their needs more than met in the basement.  He is also well aware, however, that there is a general consensus to leave the eccentric quartermaster well enough alone.  Bond smirks at the uncharacteristically wise decision of his fellow agents knowing full well that any of the sub-basement safeguards would significantly injure anyone trying to enter without previously agreed upon access. 

The sub-basement is a converted accumulation of tunnels.  It was Q who first discovered the existence of the tunnel system under the basement.  He had accompanied Bond into the basement to observe him test out several new weapons in development while Bond was on administrative leave.  Bond remembered the black mood he was in despite the fact one of the modified guns was his Walthur.  While he was gone Q had restructured the model to incorporate a miniscule grappling hook that could easily hold his weight and an impressive switchblade for close combat. 

Bond had just emptied the second clip when Q straightened from where he was leaning on the wall.  He walked forward, directly into Bond’s line of fire, with his head cocked to the side.  As he approached the target he took off his electronic headset that was designed both to protect his hearing and to provide them with a method of communication while testing the new equipment. He dropped it in front of him as he crouched down ten feet short of the target to run his hands over the floor.    

“Fire again,” he instructed after a moment.

“With you standing there?  Without your gear?  I don't bloody well think so.”

“Do it,” Q ordered dismissively, his long fingers searching the concrete.

“No,” Bond’s voice was barely more than a growl.

“Bond!” Q’s voice was sharp and exasperated, his nose now inches from the floor as he searched it. “I heard something.”

“Permanently damaging your hearing is not what I signed on for today.”

“So it's not a concern over shooting me,” Q lifted his head to smirk over his shoulder.

“I'm an excellent shot,” Bond retorted.

“Good, then you won’t demand I move.” Q laid down on the floor then, stretching out his long limbs, with his left ear pressed against the cold concrete. “Fire the weapon 007.”

“I demand you wear ear protection Quartermaster,” Bond countered, striding over to where Q was lying down.  Bond grabbed him by the hair and forcibly jerked him up onto his knees, succeeding only because Q wasn’t expecting it.

Q recovered quickly from his now kneeling position and lashed out at Bond with a vicious punch to the right kidney in an attempt to free himself.  Bond tightened his grip on Q’s neck and followed the movement of his punch so he could grab his arm.  In one quick move, he pulled Q’s arm behind his back, further pinning him in place where he knelt down.  Q struggled in earnest, flexing his muscles in Bond’s grip, as Bond crouched down to pull him tight against his body.

Bond leaned forward, further knocking Q off balance, as he made a grab for the ear protection on the floor.  Q twisted violently, wrenching Bond’s left arm forward, when he assessed what the agent wanted.  He dipped forward and nearly unseated Bond in his crouch.  Bond snarled at him and adapted quickly, following the movement by lunging forward.  He allowed his weight to shove Q’s upper body into the floor and didn’t bother to protect his quartermaster’s head when it crashed into the concrete.

“Perfect,” Q breathed a moment after his head smacked the floor, finally subdued.  Bond looked down to see the blood pooling under his cheek where it had split open on contact. “I can hear it now.  Apparently, I just need to be pounded repeatedly into the floor.”

“If that’s what you need.” Bond’s smile was feral as he flipped open the switchblade on the modified gun and cut the quartermaster’s trousers off.  
  
It wasn’t long after that night when Q gained access to the tunnel system.  He immediately started to design another series of testing facility rooms but solely for his own purposes.  When he told Bond his goal was to be able to test development projects that contained both short and long range explosives, Bond had muttered about psychopathic geniuses with unlimited budgets.

Q had made him pay for that comment. Bond still had an angry red scar from the stab wound on his left side.

At the bottom of the stairwell, Bond sees a thin outline of light surrounding the edges of the doorframe to the bunker on his right.  He retrieves the key card for the second time and presses it to the sensor on the door just as it shudders slightly.  Bond looks up into the darkness with a frown and forces down the combination of anxiety and anger that starts to fill him. 

_Traitor in six_. His mind recalls the image as clearly as if he is looking at his phone.  His breath catches at the thought the traitor may be here in the room with his quartermaster.

If Q is harmed in any capacity he'll kill everyone involved.

The door unlocks and Bond enters the bunker.  His eyes quickly adjust to the light after being immersed in total darkness for the last ten minutes but all he can see is smoke.  It burns his throat and makes his eyes water as he searches for Q.  His visibility is limited to only a few feet in front of him but slowly shapes begin to form around him as he walks around.  He can see that to his right Q has made himself a makeshift bunker that he is currently not occupying.  
Bond hears Q’s approach before he can see him. 

Q comes out of the smoke looking like a man possessed.  His unruly hair stands on end and his eyes are wild.  Instead of his normal cardigan, he is only wearing a thin t-shirt and it is ripped in multiple places.  Bond is concerned that several of the rips are accompanied by dark, wet stains.  Q has a rocket launcher perched on his right shoulder that is still smoking even as he gently lifts it up and moves to carefully set it on the floor. 

“Q,” he says gently, walking forward to his quartermaster. “I’m here now.  What’s happened?”

Q doesn't answer with words.

One moment Bond is walking in the smoke filled room toward Q.  The next moment he is being propelled backward and pressed hard into the cement, soundproof wall by the force of the strong, lean body wrapping around him.  His mouth is devoured by Q’s in a harsh grasp of teeth and tongue. 

Forceful hands are pressing Bond’s arms up over his head.  When both of his hands are grasped firmly in Q's left, his right hand slides down Bond’s cheek before moving to loosen his tie.  He pops open the top button on Bond’s white shirt so he can press his hot mouth against the sensitive skin of Bond’s throat before he bites down.  Bond groans at the sensation that merges pain with pleasure.  His neck is already oversensitive from the bruising he got on his last mission.  Q increases the pressure with his teeth and sucks hard on the sensitive skin.  
His legs are pushed apart as Q angles himself between them, already canting his hips into Bonds. Bond is quickly hardening at the onslaught of sensation as Q removes his hands from restraining Bond to focus on his belt buckle.  Free of constraint, Bond seizes the opportunity to grab Q's chin and force his head up for another kiss. 

It starts again with the same angry gnashing of teeth and tongue.  Q tries to dominate but that is before Bond tightens one hand in Q's unruly hair and slips the second to where he knows the outline of the seven tattoo is.   Bond traces it from memory alone. 

Bond’s touch on the tattoo causes Q to gentle instantaneously.  He melts into the deep exploration of Bond’s mouth. Q's body relaxes incrementally into Bond and he whimpers.

It is that sound, his own sound, which causes Q to jerk himself away from Bond’s hands. 

He is reacting quickly, violently, as if he was burned.  He tears himself from Bond’s mouth and drops to his knees before him.  Bond reaches for him, trying to pull him back into their embrace, but Q jerks away from him as he yanks the button free on Bond’s trousers and pulls down the flies.

“Wait, Q, wait,” Bond says to him.  He can feel the quartermaster’s palpable desperation like a brand.

“No, no, James. I can’t, not like that, not right now,” Q whispers as he slides Bond’s trousers and pants from his hips.

Bond goes to respond to the brokenness in Q’s voice.  He cannot bear to hear him like that but before he can speak Q swallows his cock into his mouth.  Bond feels the slide of that lush, clever tongue on his heated skin and loses most of his rational thought.  He growls as Q sucks all the way down his length until his nose is touching Bond’s skin at the base of his shaft.

“Q,” he moans as he threads his hands into the quartermaster’s unruly hair enjoying the tactile sensation he craves.  There is no need for Bond to guide him; his quartermaster controls the speed and fucks Bond with his mouth instead of the other way around. 

Q’s left hand digs into Bond’s hip, effectively pinning them together, as his right hand slides up between the agent’s legs.  He starts with caressing his balls before moving his fingers, spit soaked, toward Bond’s opening. Once there he applies teasing pressure to the tightness that causes Bond to gasp.

All too soon Bond feels himself coming undone.  His breathing becomes uneven as his hands tighten in Q’s hair.  At the same time, Q pushes his index finger fully inside him and twists.  Bond moans as he feels the pressure expertly applied to his prostrate.  The first finger is followed quickly by a second, which burns upon entry, and that pain narrows everything down to the sensations consuming him.  He cannot hold out any longer, climaxing violently, in hot full spurts into Q’s mouth.

Q does not stop, swallowing before he chases Bond’s waning erection with his tongue.  He continues to mercilessly tease shivers from the over-sensitive flesh and Bond cannot stop his groan as he trembles from the onslaught of sensation. 

Q finally relents, taking his mouth from Bond’s cock to press hard kisses up his still-clothed torso, as he slides up Bond’s body in the smoke-filled room to claim his mouth.  Bond can taste himself as Q plunders his mouth and he easily complies with the movements.  There was a time when he would have fought tooth and nail for control but now is not that time. He belongs to the quartermaster and lets him take what he wants. 

Bond shivers against the press of the cool clothes against his hot skin as Q undulates against him.  Q slips his right hand between Bond’s legs again, at a new angle this time as he opens him further, both fingers continuing to expertly hit his prostrate.  Bond finds himself grinding into him despite his release and his fingers are undoing the buttons of Q’s shirt so they can press together skin to skin.

Once Q’s shirt is open, he reaches down to undo the quartermaster’s trousers.  Bond almost has completely freed him from the tight trousers when Q pulls back.  He takes control again, gripping Bond’s hips and firmly twisting him, so he is forced to press his face flush against the wall.  Bond sucks in a shaky breath as Q spreads his legs a bit further apart and the tip of Q’s dripping, hard cock begins to press into him.   

Bond is on fire.  He struggles to breathe against the strength of Q entering him when he’s not completely ready.  He forces himself to relax as Q’s right hand slides from his hip, where he is holding him tight enough to bruise, to grip Bond’s half-hard cock. 

“Don’t hold back,” Bond growls.

“You’re sure.” He can hear the strain in Q’s voice at the control he is exerting over his gently movements when everything about him is radiating violence. Q presses deeper inside him, not fucking Bond yet. He bites down on the left side of Bond’s bruised neck as he waits for an answer.

“I’m sure.” 

Again, Q doesn’t answer with words but with his body.  He is taking from Bond tonight.  The pace is punishing even as Q skillfully adjusts his stance so he can drive deep into the tight opening and hit Bond’s prostrate from yet a third angle.  Q releases Bond’s neck to moan in his ear as he grips the agent’s hip with one strong hand as he pounds him into the cement wall.  It is everything Bond wants.

_Yes. More. Harder._  Bond hears the words around them as if he’s not saying them.  He uses both his hands to brace himself against the wall as he pushes back into Q’s body.  In response, Q tightens his left hand around Bond’s now rock hard erection as he fucks him. 

Bond feels Q falter for the first time in his rhythm.  He presses his forehead into the back of Bond’s neck and tightens his grip on his cock.  Bond feels himself approaching orgasm a second time and he shouts Q’s name in the soundproof room over and over again.  That sound is all the quartermaster needs and he releases inside of Bond.

Bond doesn’t know how long they lay there pressed against the wall until slowly Q pulls out of him.  He groans softly at the sudden loss of contact.  The hand that gripped his hip is shaking slightly as Q pulls the agent back against his chest. 

Q turns them and supports their weight so they can slide slowly down the wall.  They collapse together once they reach the floor and Q shifts his hold so Bond is against the wall and Q is curled into his side.  Q reaches up to gently kiss Bond before he tucks his face into Bond’s bruised neck.

“Welcome back.”

Bond, as always, is struck by the sharp contrast of what they just did and the vulnerability Q shows him in the moments after. He tightens his grip on Q and presses a kiss into his wild hair.

 “Q,” Bond says gently after a time. “What happened?”

“Hell broke loose,” Q says quietly. “Hell broke loose, James, and I wasn’t able to stop it.”


End file.
